South Of Hell

bank of Lethe Creek, but she spun away from him and plunged into the water.

He trudged into the stream, clawing at her parka. But she was fast, flying through the water. He couldn’t keep up, slowed by the icy rush against his thighs and the sucking of mud at his shoes.

“Stop, you little bitch!”

She stumbled onto the rocks on the other side, gasping and trying to get her balance. He lunged at her. All he could catch was her ankle. With a jerk, he pulled her backward. She slammed face-first to the bank, her screams smothered in the mud.

He flipped her over so he could see her face. Now he could see the terror burning in her eyes, feel the hot pulse of panicked air from her lips. This was the way it was supposed to be.

He plunged the knife into the soft flesh of her belly.

Her small hands flew up, groping for something to grab, but he ripped them off his shirt and shoved her away from him.

She fell back into the water.

He was going to go after her and cut her up good, but it didn’t look like he had to. The bitch was motionless. One arm wedged between the muddy rocks, the other floating limply in the rippling water that rocked her thin body.

Her eyes were open, looking at him. But there was nothing in them now.

Brandt sucked in some cold air to steady himself. His knees felt like rubber.

She’s back there.

He turned slowly to the south, toward the farm.

The bitch had been lying to him. They all lied.

But he couldn’t stop himself.

He slogged back through the stream and up the rise on the other side. When he got to the cemetery, he paused. There to the south, through the bare black trees, he could see the barn.

He started toward it.

Chapter Forty-two

“Joe, wait.”

“I’m going to look in the barn again,” she yelled back.

“We’ve been over it twice, Joe. She’s not in there.”

Joe stopped. She was about twenty feet from the barn door, hair whipping around her face, the tip of her nose raw from the wind.

Louis trotted over to her. She was just standing there, staring out at the cornfields. They had already been back through the house, searching it from attic to cellar. They had scoured the barn from the loft to the stalls. The only buildings left to search were a pump shed and the outhouse.

“I’ve never been this worried about anyone,” Joe said softly.

“I know.”

Joe pushed her hair from her face. “Maybe she didn’t make it this far, Louis,” she said. “I keep thinking maybe somebody picked her up on the highway, and we’re wasting valuable time here, and…” Her voice trailed off as she shook her head slowly.

Louis reached out and zipped up her jacket. His hand lingered on her cold cheek. “She’s here somewhere,” he said.

She ran a shaky hand under her nose. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll take the shed. Will you…?”

She motioned toward the outhouse. Louis nodded and headed off in that direction. He didn’t think Amy would be in either building, but they had to look. He was coming to believe there was another possibility that neither he nor certainly not Joe wanted to consider. Had Amy regressed to the same childlike state she’d been in when they first found her in the cupboard? That was the only logical explanation for the fact that she hadn’t responded to their calls.

Because she was here. He hadn’t said that to Joe just to calm her down. He believed it.

He stopped outside the outhouse to grab a breath, then pulled open the door. Hand to his nose, he fished the flashlight from his back pocket, stepped inside, and looked down into the dark hole. Nothing.

He let out a breath of relief and backed out into the cold air. Joe was coming out of the shed, and he walked toward her, taking time again to scan the horizon. His step slowed as his mind tripped with an idea. There was a place they hadn’t thought of yet.

The cemetery.

But why would Amy go there? She had no reason to think Jean would be there, buried or unburied.

Joe suddenly disappeared behind a low, grassy hill out toward the cornfields. He didn’t like the idea of her being out of view, and he hurried to her. He found her digging through a tangle of heavy brush on a west-facing slope of the hill. He could see a peeling white board behind the branches.

He stepped closer. “What did you find?”

“I don’t know,” Joe said. Her hands were bleeding from pulling at the thorn bushes, but she didn’t stop. She yanked away the last of the bushes.

They stood silently, staring at a rotted old door hanging by one hinge, embedded in the side of the hill.

He hadn’t seen this door on his other visits. But he realized now that it had been easy to overlook. The small hill was just one of several on the gently undulating ground surrounding the farmhouse and barn. All of the rises were dense with brush hidden by garbage and rusting machines. Maybe the deputies had found this door and already searched what was behind it. If there was nothing inside, there was no reason for the deputies to mention it.

But why was his gut telling him something was wrong about this place?

Joe reached to the door.

“Joe,” Louis said, “draw your weapon.”

She glanced back at him, then pulled her.45 from its holster. She stepped back to let Louis pull the door away.

Joe slipped inside, arms rigid, gun pointed. Louis stayed at the entrance, clicking on his flashlight and wishing like hell he’d thought to put his Glock on his belt. But they had not come here with the idea of finding Brandt.

The beam of his flashlight swept over the back of Joe’s leather jacket, then picked up gray stone walls and sagging rafters.

What was this place? A tornado shelter?

“You can’t go in there.”

The man’s voice was deep and familiar. And it was coming from above him.

Louis’s head snapped up to the hill above the door.

“You can’t be in there!” Brandt screamed.

A second later, Louis saw the broken knife in Brandt’s hand.

“Joe!”

Brandt lunged at him, coming off the top of the hill with the force of a two-hundred-pound boulder. Louis stumbled backward and threw up both arms, trying to deflect the impact of Brandt’s body.

But he was knocked off his feet and slammed to the ground onto his back. A splintering pain fired through his chest.

The knife. Get the knife.

He saw a flash of metal. His hands flew up, locking around Brandt’s wrist to stop his downward thrust. Brandt started hitting him, desperate to free his knife.

“Joe!”

But he knew why she hadn’t fired. She had no clear shot. He and Brandt were too close, too tangled up.

He gritted his teeth and steeled his arms, using all the strength he had to force Brandt’s shoulders back and up, pushing until Brandt was on his haunches and erect.